


Different Kind of Love Song

by bendingsignpost



Series: Tumblr Fic [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dancer Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Musician Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:10:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18728629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: Covers are always more popular, Dean knows. Songs people already know, songs they already like. When he performs, he's typically more of a jukebox than a real musician.It's an unusual night when someone takes a risk on him instead.





	Different Kind of Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked  
> Hope you are doing well. Musician and Choreographer AU. Love your works! Thank you :)

“I’ll be taking requests now,” Dean murmurs into the mic, easing back onto his stool after his water break. Looking around the coffee shop, he idly strums on his guitar, trying to make his favoritism less absolute blatant. “As always, you can toss ‘em in the bowl with a little appreciation, but to start us off... Let’s see. The really polite guy with the raised hand.”

The really polite guy also happens to be hot as hell, and a memorable regular at this place. It’s pushing ten o’clock on a Saturday night, and this guy is here with a laptop and a full pot of coffee. He’s also got a voice Dean wants to roll around in and a body Dean would kill to roll around with. 

“Must Be Dreaming,” polite guy says. 

Dean blinks. Because he knows what his gut says, but he also knows which one of his CDs sells more, and it’s always,  _always_  the covers. 

“By...” Dean prompts. 

Polite guy furrows his brow and frowns at Dean in clear confusion. “By you...?”

Dean coughs a laugh. “Not what I usually get requests for, awesome.” He clears his throat, plays it up with a grin. “Always nice to meet a fan.” And then he winks, probably going just a bit too far. 

The song is as simple and mellow as it is wistful. It steadies Dean, pulls him down to the ground, and he sings low, sings soft and then strong. 

“...and I know I must be dreaming, ‘cause you’re there when I call, ‘cause you’re there when I turn, in a house still standing tall, like our world could never burn.  I see the years we never had, I’ll love the good and love the bad, but I know I must be dreaming, yeah, I know I must be dreaming...” For the final notes, he pulls it back in. He turns himself soft. “‘Cause you’re standing there. Yeah, I know I must be dreaming... ‘Cause you’re standing there.”

And then he looks up from his guitar and blinks until he can smile. Not hard, not with a round of applause and a few more requests already in his jar. 

Dean looks back towards the polite guy, who’s looking right back at him. Not smiling, not applauding. Just looking, but with his whole body, all of it aimed at Dean. 

Lifting his water from beside the tip jar, Dean toasts the man and drinks before pulling out the song request on top. “Simple Man, good pick.” 

He plays on for another half an hour. He gets more money, though not as much as he’d like, and he gets more song requests, though not the songs he’d prefer. Some patrons head out early and some stick around. Polite guy sticks around. 

Polite guy lingers absurdly, actually, sticking around even while Dean’s packing up and the cafe is doing its best to drive people out the door and into the night. Maybe not so polite after all, but still good to look at. 

Dean’s sorting through his takings for the night when he feels a presence at his shoulder. He turns and steps back on instinct, the guy standing near and intent. 

“Whoa, kinda close there, buddy,” Dean says, trying to play off his abruptly racing heart with a laugh. 

“Castiel,” the man says, and he offers his hand. 

Eyebrows raised, Dean takes it. “Dean.”

“I know,” Castiel says, holding Dean’s hand more than a couple seconds longer than is typical. “Are you still selling your CDs? I didn’t have any cash on me last time.”

Dean grins. “Yeah, I got a couple.” He unzips his bag and pulls out the cover CD. 

Castiel’s face falls. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t have any of your original songs recorded?”

Dean’s face heats up, and it’s not from the token attempt at stage lights in this place. “No, uh. Here. Ten bucks.”

Castiel hands him a twenty. Dean immediately starts thumbing through his takings for a ten, but Castiel shakes his head. Dean hands him the cover CD instead. 

“But I didn’t tip,” Castiel says, eyes wide like he’s weirdly panicked by the idea. 

“You’re the only call for an original song I got all night,” Dean answers plainly. “That’s worth way more than a tip.”

Nodding very seriously indeed, Castiel takes both CDs. They cast the size of his hands into sharp relief. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean smiles back, watching Castiel look over the back of Dean’s original album. Unwilling to let the conversation die, he adds, “It’s not a love song, you know.”

With a blink, Castiel looks back up at him. 

“Must Be Dreaming,” Dean explains. “It’s not a love song.”

“I could tell,” Castiel answers. 

Dean raises an eyebrow at that. “Seriously?”

A nod. Castiel leans closer. Lowers his voice. “It reminds me of my father.”

For all of a second, Dean considers not answering, and yet he’s already talking, saying, “It’s about my mom.”

“Left?”

“Died.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. 

“Yours left?”

Castiel nods. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Dean says. 

They stand there some moments longer, silent against a backdrop of baristas cleaning. 

“See you around,” Dean says. 

“You’re playing next Thursday?” Castiel asks, for some reason already knowing that. 

“Yeah. See you then?”

Castiel nods. He grabs up his laptop bag and coat, and he leaves without looking back. 

-

Castiel’s there next Thursday. 

-

And the Saturday after that. 

-

A Sunday afternoon performance after that, across town at an entirely different place, Dean makes his way over during his water break. 

“Hey,” he says, sitting down across from Castiel and his ever-present computer. He puts on a flirty grin. “You stalking me or something?”

Castiel looks embarrassed but doesn’t say no. “There’s something I want to ask you, but it’s been difficult to find the nerve.”

Dean’s grin widens. “Go ahead.”

Hands clasped tightly on the table, Castiel looks at him with wide, nervous blue eyes and says, “I want to use your music for a dance recital.”

Dean says, “What?”

“It’s a good fit for me. When I was stuck, listening to you helped me visualize my way through my block, but the routine I’ve worked out for Must Be Dreaming is the one I want to do, and I’d like your permission.”

“Okay, wait,” Dean says. “Start over.”

Castiel starts over. Talks about dance classes and theater and choreography, and coming back to school to learn it properly. Stresses aloud over a class recital and explains that what had originally been a calming routine had somehow wrapped itself perfectly around Dean’s music, and how Castiel is now certain he can’t possibly put together anything else half as good as that. 

“So, what,” Dean says. “You just need me to sign off or something?”

“I can pay you,” Castiel says, as forthright as he is stressed. “A little. I’m not going to ask you to let me use it just for exposure.”

Dean leans back. He thinks about it. And maybe he thinks a little about Castiel too, the silent grace of his motions, his hands and toned thighs. 

“Let me see what you’ve got, and we’ll figure it out from there,” Dean says. 

-

Castiel shows him. 

Dean stares. 

Dean gapes. 

Dean makes Castiel show him again. 

-

When the night comes, Dean plays live. His voice and guitar, Castiel’s body. Together, one stationary, one fluid, they dance together. 

Turns out, Dean was wrong:

It’s a love song after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/) or [dreamwidth here](http://https://bendingsignpost.dreamwidth.org/).


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